This Easter morning I've read some banned literature at sunrise: something more entertaining than watching Mel Gibson’s Passion of the Christ, a movie so violently pop and poppishly violent that it should feature Holy Ghostface Killah on backup vocals, whatever that means.

Thirty-thousand people are sitting just five miles away from me in their Easter Sunday best, girls looking like Easter eggs and little boys happy with their thumbs or doodling on donation cards while their parents open their tilled souls and clean ears to hear from a real pro: a guy has his own verb and who is known for giving God all the end zone glory.

Tim Tebow is speaking at church in Georgetown, Texas today. It’s on the Drudge Report and on the hearts of every Southern Christian who wishes they were in another pew this morning. Without sounding too pessimistic, I don’t like celebrities. I think there’s more talent than Hollywood has ever offered, or what is found on any sports field, in unpublished, uncannonized or unrecognized works of art that we’ll ever know about. But people don’t want work at appreciating something or someone, they want the complete package. People want heroes who can prop them on their shoulders and, at the same time, heroes that their fans can wear on their sleeves or on jerseys. Our stars are meant to likeable and honorable and to be remembered for generations. I’ll happily sound pessimistic, though, when I say that I don’t like Easter Sunday. I’ve survived a few so I think I can comment on the platitudes and regurgitated boredom. But some people really like it, such as the pastor for the church that Tim Tebow is speaking at.

“Obviously it's our Super Bowl," said Joe Champion, pastor at the Celebration Church. "Easter is the resurrection of Christ, which we celebrate in our faith. We feel like it's going to be a testimony to the community. We want it to be a family event…There will be the sacredness of Easter. It's not a Tim Tebow show. It's not about a celebrity. There's really only one celebrity that we are going to honor and highlight.”

The minister also states that the Tebow camp selected the church. Selected. Off season is this athlete a traveling circus? Now, I have to ask, why is he speaking? Can I speak? Can you speak on such a sacred morning? Can any one of us play in God’s Super Bowl? Most believers, I believe, would admit that Easter Sunday is rehearsal from years and decades past. Community? It is only good because Tim Tebow is famous?

Easter is the same Super Bowl over and over, no matter who speaks. One gospel will be picked to eliminate those nasty post-mortem contradictions. This is not a critique of faith, just commentary on sheep who are in search of any shepherd. There is nothing new, which, coincidentally, is what Samuel Johnson said about John Milton's "Lycidas." But this morning, I did want a religious experience. I did want Resurrection. So I had one. While some Tebowed this morning, I Miltoned.

Yet once more, O ye Laurels, and once more Ye Myrtles brown, with Ivy never-sear, I com to pluck your Berries harsh and crude, And with forc'd fingers rude, Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year. [ 5 ] Bitter constraint, and sad occasion dear, Compels me to disturb your season due: For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime, Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer: Who would not sing for Lycidas? he knew [ 10 ] Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme. He must not flote upon his watry bear Unwept, and welter to the parching wind, Without the meed of som melodious tear.

Begin then, Sisters of the sacred well, [ 15 ] That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring, Begin, and somwhat loudly sweep the string. Hence with denial vain, and coy excuse, So may som gentle Muse With lucky words favour my destin'd Urn, [ 20 ] And as he passes turn, And bid fair peace be to my sable shrowd. For we were nurst upon the self-same hill, Fed the same flock, by fountain, shade, and rill.

Together both, ere the high Lawns appear'd [ 25 ] Under the opening eye-lids of the morn, We drove a field, and both together heard What time the Gray-fly winds her sultry horn,Batt'ning our flocks with the fresh dews of night, Oft till the Star that rose, at Ev'ning, bright [ 30 ] Toward Heav'ns descent had slop'd his westering wheel. Mean while the Rural ditties were not mute, Temper'd to th' Oaten Flute, Rough Satyrs danc'd, and Fauns with clov'n heel, From the glad sound would not be absent long, [ 35 ] And old Damœtas lov'd to hear our song.

But O the heavy change, now thou art gon, Now thou art gon, and never must return! Thee Shepherd, thee the Woods, and desert Caves, With wilde Thyme and the gadding Vine o'regrown, [ 40 ] And all their echoes mourn. The Willows, and the Hazle Copses green, Shall now no more be seen, Fanning their joyous Leaves to thy soft layes. As killing as the Canker to the Rose, [ 45 ] Or Taint-worm to the weanling Herds that graze, Or Frost to Flowers, that their gay wardrop wear, When first the White thorn blows; Such, Lycidas, thy loss to Shepherds ear.

Where were ye Nymphs when the remorseless deep [ 50 ] Clos'd o're the head of your lov'd Lycidas? For neither were ye playing on the steep, Where your old Bards, the famous Druids ly, Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high, Nor yet where Deva spreads her wisard stream: [ 55 ] Ay me, I fondly dream! Had ye bin there — for what could that have don? What could the Muse her self that Orpheus bore, The Muse her self, for her inchanting son Whom Universal nature did lament, [ 60 ] When by the rout that made the hideous roar, His goary visage down the stream was sent, Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian shore.

Alas! What boots it with uncessant care To tend the homely slighted Shepherds trade, [ 65 ] And strictly meditate the thankles Muse, Were it not better don as others use, To sport with Amaryllis in the shade,Or with the tangles of Neæra's hair?Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise [ 70 ] (That last infirmity of Noble mind) To scorn delights, and live laborious dayes; But the fair Guerdon when we hope to find, And think to burst out into sudden blaze, Comes the blind Fury with th' abhorred shears, [ 75 ] And slits the thin spun life. But not the praise,Phœbus repli'd, and touch'd my trembling ears;Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil, Nor in the glistering foil Set off to th' world, nor in broad rumour lies, [ 80 ] But lives and spreds aloft by those pure eyes, And perfet witnes of all judging Jove; As he pronounces lastly on each deed, Of so much fame in Heav'n expect thy meed.

O Fountain Arethuse, and thou honour'd flood, [ 85 ] Smooth-sliding Mincius, crown'd with vocall reeds, That strain I heard was of a higher mood: But now my Oate proceeds, And listens to the Herald of the Sea That came in Neptune'splea, [ 90 ] He ask'd the Waves, and ask'd the Fellon winds, What hard mishap hath doom'd this gentle swain? And question'd every gust of rugged wings That blows from off each beaked Promontory, They knew not of his story, [ 95 ] And sage Hippotades their answer brings, That not a blast was from his dungeon stray'd, The Ayr was calm, and on the level brine, Sleek Panope with all her sisters play'd. It was that fatall and perfidious Bark [ 100 ] Built in th' eclipse, and rigg'd with curses dark, That sunk so low that sacred head of thine.

Next Camus, reverend Sire, went footing slow, His Mantle hairy, and his Bonnet sedge, Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edge [ 105 ] Like to that sanguine flower inscrib'd with woe. Ah! Who hath reft (quoth he) my dearest pledge? Last came, and last did go,The Pilot of the Galilean lake, Two massy Keyes he bore of metals twain, [ 110 ] (The Golden opes, the Iron shuts amain) He shook his Miter'd locks, and stern bespake, How well could I have spar'd for thee young swain,Anow of such as for their bellies sake, Creep and intrude, and climb into the fold? [ 115 ] Of other care they little reck'ning make, Then how to scramble at the shearers feast, And shove away the worthy bidden guest. Blind mouthes! that scarce themselves know how to hold A Sheep-hook, or have learn'd ought els the least [ 120 ] That to the faithfull Herdmans art belongs! What recks it them? What need they? They are sped; And when they list, their lean and flashy songs Grate on their scrannel Pipes of wretched straw,The hungry Sheep look up, and are not fed, [ 125 ] But swoln with wind, and the rank mist they draw, Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread: Besides what the grim Woolf with privy paw Daily devours apace, and nothingsed, But that two-handed engine at the door, [ 130 ] Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more.

Return Alpheus, the dread voice is past, That shrunk thy streams; Return Sicilian Muse, And call the Vales, and bid them hither cast Their Bels, and Flourets of a thousand hues. [ 135 ] Ye valleys low where the milde whispers use, Of shades and wanton winds, and gushing brooks, On whose fresh lap the swart Star sparely looks, Throw hither all your quaint enameld eyes, That on the green terf suck the honied showres, [ 140 ] And purple all the ground with vernal flowres. Bring the rathe Primrose that forsaken dies. The tufted Crow-toe, and pale Jasmine, The white Pink, and the Pansie freakt with jeat, The glowing Violet. [ 145 ] The Musk-rose, and the well attir'd Woodbine, With Cowslips wan that hang the pensive hed, And every flower that sad embroidery wears: Bid Amaranthus all his beauty shed, And Daffadillies fill their cups with tears, [ 150 ] To strew the Laureat Herse where Lycid lies. For so to interpose a little ease, Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise. Ay me! Whilst thee the shores and sounding Seas Wash far away, where ere thy bones are hurld, [ 155 ] Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides, Where thou perhaps under the whelming tide Visit'st the bottom of the monstrous world; Or whether thou to our moist vows deny'd, Sleep'st by the fable of Bellerus old, [ 160 ] Where the great vision of the guarded Mount Looks toward Namancos and Bayona's hold;Look homeward Angel now, and melt with ruth. And, O ye Dolphins, waft the haples youth.

Weep no more, woful Shepherds weep no more, [ 165 ] For Lycidas your sorrow is not dead, Sunk though he be beneath the watry floar, So sinks the day-star in the Ocean bed, And yet anon repairs his drooping head, And tricks his beams, and with new-spangled Ore, [ 170 ] Flames in the forehead of the morning sky: So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high, Through the dear might of him that walk'd the waves; Where other groves, and other streams along, With Nectar pure his oozy Lock's he laves, [ 175 ] And hears the unexpressive nuptiall Song,In the blest Kingdoms meek of joy and love. There entertain him all the Saints above, In solemn troops, and sweet Societies That sing, and singing in their glory move, [ 180 ] And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes. Now Lycidas the Shepherds weep no more; Hence forth thou art the Genius of the shore, In thy large recompense, and shalt be good To all that wander in that perilous flood. [ 185 ]

Thus sang the uncouth Swain to th' Okes and rills, While the still morn went out with Sandals gray, He touch'd the tender stops of various Quills, With eager thought warbling his Dorick lay: And now the Sun had stretch'd out all the hills, [ 190 ] And now was dropt into the Western bay; At last he rose, and twitch'd his Mantle blew: To morrow to fresh Woods, and Pastures new.

Springtime is a time resurrection, it always has been; that certainly is one of the co-opted tenants of Christian faith borrowed from paganism. That’s nothing to believe in, I know, but believe it because it’s fact. As John Updike once said that for as long as we have an appendix we’ll have Christian faith. Simply put, we’ll have faith until we evolve out of it. That’s remarkable honesty from a faithful man. Today is a morning that celebrates the artificial instead of the beautiful, which is where the poem, which is highly imaginative, resides.

Lines 165 through 181 focus on the comforting aspects of realizing that after death, immortality waits; sandwiched between those lines is where the narrator realizes “SoLycidassunk low, butmountedhigh,” (L. 172) The poem centers on lamentations of death in the same way that any Easter morning focuses on death. But both also focus on resurrection, or as Milton says, “Pastures new.” (L. 193)

And now the Sun had stretch'd out all the hills, And now was dropt into the Western bay; At last he rose, and twitch'd his Mantle blew: To morrow to fresh Woods, and Pastures new.

Both St. Peter and Phoebus (the Roman god Apollo) are blamed for the death of Lycidas, which is why the poem was banned by The Church of England for years. The Roman god says something intuitive about fame lines 79 through 85:

Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil, Nor in the glistering foil Set off to th'world, nor in broad rumour lies, But lives and spreds aloft by those pure eyes, And perfet witnes of all judging Jove; As he pronounces lastly on each deed, Of so much fame in Heav'n expect thy meed.

A good life is famous, it fulfills and gives meaning to life, not simply being famous; not simply being worshiped, but you don’t need to believe in that stuff to enjoy good poetry.